


Let's Hang Out Sometime

by Confusedpxnk



Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Is In Love, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Saves the Day, Hanging, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Restraints, Torture, Whump, Whumptober 2020, knife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-10-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:27:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26764303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Confusedpxnk/pseuds/Confusedpxnk
Summary: Day 1 of Whumptober 2020 Waking up Restrained/Shackled/Hanging.Julian Alfred Pankratz had ended up in a lot of sticky situations due to doing some dumb shit, but this one might take the cake.AKA, Geralt saves Jaskier.Feelings ensue.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Whumptober 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1950520
Comments: 5
Kudos: 118
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Let's Hang Out Sometime

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Blood, Knifes, Torture, Ropes/Restraints.

Julian Alfred Pankratz had ended up in a lot of sticky situations due to doing some dumb shit, but this one might take the cake.

He groaned as he came to, his joints aching as they were pulled taught by the rope that held his arms to the sky. Wrapped around each wrist was a slightly frayed rope, connected to the ceiling of the dark room. In front of him. His arms were pulled so far up that he had to stand on his toes to lessen the strain. Every bone in his body was tight, which didn’t make sense to him considering he was so stretched out. He was left only in his loose trousers, he looked down to see his ribs sticking out oddly, due to the angle he was forced into. 

The last thing he remembered, he had been mocking some Nilfgaardian soldiers. He specifically remembers telling one of them that his mustache looked rather phallic. After that, he heard a faded thunk and woke up in this position. He still wasn’t sure if he regretted it or not. He probably didn’t. To be fair, he had a good point. Jaskier had never, in his life, seen facial hair that looked so much like genitalia. Frankly, the resemblance was uncanny. He thought about the phallic facial hair for what seemed like hours before anyone came in.

After what felt like ages, two men walked into the room. Jaskier recognized them as mustache man, and his buddy, Trent. What a dumb fucking name, the bard thought. They approached him, bringing a large knapsack of clanging goods with them. Without giving Jaskier so much as a glance, they dumped the knapsack out, letting a pile of metal tools ring against each other.  
Jaskier cringed, the sound seemed to resonate throughout his skill, piercing his brain. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to push out the noise. While doing this, he failed to notice the pile of tools that lay on the ground just in front of his feet. The ground in front of him was littered with various blades, metal clubs, and other tools of torture. He bit his lips, trying to keep his cool. He can’t afford to break down now. I just need to wait, he tells himself. I need to wait for Geralt.

This proved to be harder than he initially thought. He really thought he’d be able to stay strong. That was until they started cutting him up. Jaskier had been beaten around before, more than most, actually. He was used to bruises. He was accustomed to being hit by various blunt objects, whether it was the ground or the fist of another man. However, he wasn’t used to being cut into.

The sharp sting of a blade through his flesh was new to Jaskier. Of course, he had been nicked a couple of times, but never anything like this. The began by cutting through the bottom of his pants, turning them into ragged shorts. Then, they started to carve intricate patterns into the bard’s fair skin. He felt blood trail down his ankles, onto the bottoms of his feet, straining to hold him up.

That, he could somewhat deal with, but when they moved onto his chest, began to thrash in his restraints. They cut deeper into his chest than they did his legs. He struggled, ignoring the pain that sprung through his arms as a result of his struggle. Trent slid the knife through a previously opened wound, and Jaskier was no longer able to remain silent.  
He let out a short whimper, fought back a sob, and blinked the tears away from his eyes before he finally broke. He let himself cry freely, screaming whenever they cut through him again. After what felt like another few hours, they appeared to get bored of Jaskier and left.

He stood there, his pants soaked with the same blood that ran down his chest and legs. Letting tears flow freely down his cheeks, his knees buckled, and his arms burned with the weight of his whole body resting on them. All hope and wit that he had left was seeping from his wounds. He could no longer be funny, witty, creative Jaskier. Right now, he was just Julian.  
After about a day of hanging with no water and food, the door to the room opened again. He whimpered, his eyes now adjusted to the darkness, straining at the sliver of light that emerged from behind the door. Knowing what would most likely come next, he broke.

“Please. Gods, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to,” He took a shuddering breath, “Just at least give me water and food. You can’t fuck with me anymore if I’m dead,” Jaskier looked at the shadowed figure, he appeared to be larger than both mustache man and Trent, but he was too delirious to notice this.

“Jaskier,” A familiar voice spoke, “It’s okay,” The figure emerged into the light, revealing himself as Geralt. 

Jaskier cringed, hearing Geralt's sword slide through the rope tying him to the ceiling. The bard let himself fall to the ground, crumpling into himself. He tried to cry, but no tears would come out. He had no water left in his system. Jaskier just lay on the floor in his own blood, choking on his own dry sobs.

Geralt picked Jaskier up, leaning him against the wall in a separate corner of the room, “Hey,” He whispered, “I got you something to drink,” Geralt tried to give Jaskier a flask of water, but it just fell through Jaskier’s trembling hands. So, he uncapped it, tilting Jaskier’s head back and pouring small sips of water down his throat. 

As he waited for Jaskier to return to full consciousness, he began to wipe the dried blood from Jaskiers chest, being careful around the wounds that had yet to close.

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice almost hurt to listen to. It was raspy, full of pain and sorrow.

“It’s me,” Geralt stated simply.

“What’s going on?”

“You’re okay now. That’s all that matters. You’re going to be okay,” The witcher scooped Jaskier into his arms, carrying him past the bodies of Trent and his friend, and bringing him into the light. Jaskier groaned, pushing his head into Geralt’s chest, trying to hide from the abrasive light outside. 

The bard faded in and out of consciousness as Geralt helped him onto Roach, took him to the nearest inn, fed him some oatmeal, and helped him into bed there. Before falling asleep for the night, Jaskier had one last lucid moment.

“Thank you,” Jaskier whispered, closing his eyes, and hugging his pillow.  
“No need to.”

“Geralt.”

“Yes?”

“Can you lay with me?” Jaskier didn’t open his eyes.

“Of course.”

Geralt slipped into bed next to Jaskier, cautiously keeping his distance until Jaskier lazily wrapped an arm around him, letting out a soft, sleepy noise as he drifted off to sleep.  
The next morning, Geralt woke up first. He carefully removed himself from Jaskier’s grasp, beginning to make breakfast. 

“Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice, though still sleepy, was too hurt for Geralt’s liking. The bard sat up against the headboard as he started to try and get out of bed.

“Whoah,” Geralt rushed back over to Jaskier, “You need to stay in bed today,” He brushed a piece of feather-soft hair out of Jaskier’s eyes.

“Why?”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Not really. You usually don’t stop for me.”

“Fuck,” Geralt brought Jaskier his breakfast, “I’m an asshole, aren’t I?”

“No-”

“Yeah, I am.”

“No!” Jaskier voice raised in pitch, “I mean, I get it. I’m usually not hurt this bad.”

“You’re usually just dramatic,” Geralt chuckled before turning somber again, “Not the right time, sorry.”

“You’re right though. Everything hurts like a bitch right now. I-It’s usually not this bad,” He prodded at the food on his plate, “It’s kinda my fault tho,” He frowned.

“Don’t say that. I don’t know what happened, but nothing you did could excuse that.”

“Yeah, probably.”

“Jaskier, you almost died,” Geralt finished his own breakfast, and got back under the covers with Jaskier, “If I had been too late, you would be gone, Jaskier.” Geralt blinked.

“But I’m not,” Jaskier leaned into Geralt, “I’m right here.”

“I’m still trying to convince myself of that.”

“Hm?” Jaskier hummed, eating a small piece of bacon.

“I..,” He trailed off, “I’m so afraid that this isn’t real, that I’m going to wake up and you’ll be gone.”

“If I just...fucking punch you in the face will you believe that I’m real?”

“Please don’t.”

Jaskier giggled, and Geralt felt a prick of warmth in his stomach. It felt like he hadn’t heard that stupid fucking giggle in ages. 

“I’ll settle for this then,” Jaskier brought a frail hand to Geralt’s cheek, turning his head towards him. The bard bit his lip, suppressing a grin, before he pressed a sweet kiss to the other man's lips, “Is that real enough for you?”

“I’m still not convinced,” Geralt smirked, going in for another kiss.


End file.
